


Loved You Wild

by LaVeraceVia



Series: Stars in the Southern Skies [4]
Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Angry Kate, Biting, Bloodplay, Bottom Seth, Brother/Brother Incest, Confrontation, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Frottage, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Kinda, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Ocean Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scenting, The Gecko Brothers Ride Again, Top Richie, everyone is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-08-30 02:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8515498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVeraceVia/pseuds/LaVeraceVia
Summary: New version of the fic, revised and expanded!
  He’s not even really surprised, when he hears footsteps behind him. Of course, he thinks.

  “Hello Richard,” he says. And even while his back is tensing in anticipation of what comes next, something messed up inside slowly untwists.





	1. Do It

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This series diverges canonically from the show after the end of Season 1. There's no Xibalba, no sympathetic culebras, and most emphatically, no Sex Machine. I like my Santanico scary, my Seth tortured, my Richie haunted, and my Kate unbroken(ish), so that's what you're getting here. This story picks up immediately after Like Some Lonesome Child, so I highly recommend reading previous parts in this series before this story, or you'll be more lost than Carlos in the labyrinth.
> 
> Like it says on the label, here there be incest (though it only dips its toes into the Geckocest pond in this chapter), so beware if that's not your thing.
> 
> Thanks for reading, loves!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He and Richie are toeing a razor-thin line right now, and on the other side of that line is a really dirty word for what they're about to do (crossword hint: six letters, begins with “i,” synonymous with “abomination”). Thing is, neither one of the Gecko brothers has ever been good at toeing a line, and one of them is bound to take the other with him when he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-wrote and expanded the fic! Herein are notes about why and how (three words: Expanded. Sex. Scene). 
> 
>  
> 
> There are a couple different reasons for the re-write/overhaul of Loved You Wild, but it basically boils down to this: I have never been particularly proud of my writing in this installment, and I felt it did a disservice to the series as a whole. I wrote it during an incredibly tough time in my life, after taking a fairly extended break from writing in general. I thought the only way to find my feet again was just to pound something out, word by word, even if every step of the process was stilted and painful. When I was done, I felt so relieved to have just written anything, that I went ahead and posted it, even though I knew on some level that the story was lacking. Every time I went back and re-read it, all I could see was what was missing (for the record: character voices and depth).
> 
> You'll find that the story begins and ends in pretty much the same place, but the middle expands greatly on the interaction between Seth and Richie, and the motivations driving each of them as well. At the end, they each came out feeling way more Gecko-like and true to form, to me. Hopefully you guys will feel the same way. Did I mention there's more sex?
> 
> Thank you all again, so, so much, for staying with me during this ride. It means more than i can say.

Seth is not a good man. Never been a particularly honorable one either. But he has a code. A line he won't cross. A guy he won't be. It's simple, really. Can be summed up in one sentence:

 

_Don't be a perv._

 

It's a simple rule, and one he's never, ever broken. Not until now.  

 

He gives the kid an orgasm for her eighteenth birthday. An orgasm. Because he's not just a bastard, but a creep too, turns out. 

 

He makes her come. Makes it good for her. Does it right. Not like he was ever going to be able to say no. He’d known from the moment she looked at him like that on the dance floor, all heat and hunger and sparkling green-eyed hope. Maybe he’d known before that. Known from the time he said “yes.” All the times he’d said yes. Yes, he’d take her with him when he left the Titty Twister. Yes, they’d do things her (squeaky, clean) way. Yes, they’d chase down the story of Johnny Madrid. Yes, he’d teach her how to fight. Yes, he’d take her out to the club that night. Yes, he’d put his tongue in her mouth and his hand down her panties and buy that first class ticket to Hell.

 

So maybe they were always going to end up here. Because with Kate the answer was always going to be “yes.”

 

So yeah, Seth’s going to Hell, no doubt about it. But he won’t take her down with him. 

 

He crosses a line, but he puts a stop to things before she can cross one too. He wants her so bad that it hurts. In his brain and his balls, and everywhere in between. But she’s better than some petty bank robbing outlaw. She’s better than…everything. Better than anything he’s ever had the right to lay his hands on, that’s for damn sure. 

 

And still he lets himself touch her. Kiss her. Move against her. Then he turns her to face the other way because…Because. If he doesn’t have to watch her face, then he can shut it down, shut _himself_ down, before he crosses the line from run-of-the-mill perv into straight up Woody Allen territory. 

 

And still he can’t resist pressing himself up against her backside a couple of times. Just a couple of times. Just so he can know what it feels like. And he lets himself, because their clothes still keep them separate, and if he’s not… _on her_ like that, then it doesn’t really count. And he can live with himself. 

 

He can, okay? Fuck off.

 

Because he does. He finds the control to reign himself in, focuses on making her feel what she needs, ruthlessly choking down on the urge to gratify himself too. He doesn’t let her reciprocate either, even though he wants her to touch him so bad his belly cramps with it. He won’t let her dirty her hands on him. He won’t.

 

_I may be a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard._

 

And it’s enough. Seth’s only hanging on by a thread, but the words (accompanied by a smile that turns cruel at the corners) are enough to push her away, to break the spell of endorphins and tequila, and send her running, if not far, far away, than far enough, at least. For now. Seth only follows her far enough to know she’s safely inside before he pulls a runner himself.

 

He ends up back down by the shore, twisting the faucet of one of the beach showers and stepping underneath, fully clothed, head bowed, hoping the drenching spray will help slow his pounding heart. And get rid of this goddamn hard-on. Christ.

 

He’s not even really surprised, when he hears footsteps behind him. _Of course_ , he thinks.

 

“Hello Richard,” he says. And even while his back is tensing in anticipation of what comes next, something messed up inside slowly untwists. 

 

He’s dreaming. Of course he’s dreaming. It’s a relief, in a way. He hasn’t had one in over a week, and it feels overdue.

 

Nearly a year on the road, and still it's the same fucking dream. The setting changes. Sometimes he dreams it happens at the hotel he and Kate stayed at that first night. Sometimes his brother accosts him outside a bar or sometimes inside a men's room. A couple of times he even dreams it happens in the middle of a crowded nightclub, people all around while Richie gets....weird with him (like he does in every single dream). And no one even turns their head to look. Not even at the end.

 

Because even though the setting might change, or the script might vary a little, the dreams all tell the same story. Richie finds him. Richie bites him. It hurts, and then it...doesn’t. It feels kinda…good. More than kinda, sometimes. And then Seth wakes up in the morning feeling…not so good. 

 

Dirty. Is the word. 

 

And then it happens again the next night, or maybe the one after that. Over and over again. Lather, rinse, re-fucking-peat.

 

There is one variation. Sometimes She shows up. Those are the worst dreams, the ones where She makes him watch Richie die. Those nights he wakes up screaming.

 

He pushes the thought from his head. Maybe this won’t be one of those. They haven't even gotten to the part where Richie bites him yet. And tonight for the first time, he welcomes it. He deserves it.

 

Without looking back, he tosses out the dream’s inaugural snipe: “All by yourself Richard? Shouldn’t Cobra Commander be here too, swinging from your dick?” 

 

Honoring the ancient tradition of inter-Gecko verbal warfare, Richie doesn’t miss a beat. He all but purrs, “ _Damn_ brother, look at you. You’re shaking. All this for a piece of underage trim? Did she feel that good?”

 

And God, Seth’s missed this. The volley of words fired back and forth, the feel of that verbal gut punch, like the relief of a fist drawing first blood. As ever, Richie’s on top of his game, his words finding all of Seth’s sore spots and digging in. 

 

(Seth’s fallen out of practice, these last few months, made a new habit of gentling his sharp tongue around Kate).

 

“Don’t call her that.” Damn. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, out before he can stop it. 

 

“Underage?” Seth can hear the satisfied smirk curving Richie’s words. 

 

“ _Trim_ ,” Seth spits. Can’t help but add, “And she’s eighteen.” He grimaces. Knows it’s a mistake the moment it’s out of his mouth. 

 

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Seth doesn’t hear the footsteps, but he can feel it, the nearness of Richie’s body, closer to him than he was a moment ago.

 

“Are you in love with our little Lolita, Seth?” 

 

“Fuck off.” Well shit. Point, Richie. He might as well have just said _you sunk my battleship._ He really is out of practice.

 

He doesn’t need to turn around to see Richie’s face to know his eyes are gleaming with barely restrained glee, sensing victory.

 

And Richie, being Richie, pushes his advantage. “Come on Seth, you’re about half a step away from carving ‘S+K 4 eva’ into the nearest wooden surface.” If he gets any closer, he’ll be standing under the spray too, pressing his body against Seth’s. 

 

Seth’s skin is so fucking hot. The shower isn’t helping. 

 

To hell with this. 

 

In one move, Seth turns and puts his face right in Richie’s. Sneers, “That’s rich from the guy who’s fucking a undead reptile. What do you think is worse Richard? The bestiality? Or the necrophilia?”

 

Richie doesn’t reply. Just breathes. Gives Seth one of those up/down evaluating glances he’s so fond of, but still doesn’t say anything. Breathes a little harder maybe. 

 

Richie’s silence feels like a win. _Boom. Seth ties it up._ It doesn’t feel as good as it should. Mainly because Seth’s skin _still_ feels like it’s scorching off bones. 

 

Fuck it. He’s done with this shit. He moves away from the shower, away from Richie, pulls his sodden shirt off over his head, toes off his shoes. The breeze coming off the water helps a little as it hits his wet skin. He heads for the water line. Doesn’t bother to check to see if Richie is following. Knows he is.

 

He wades far enough out and dives down beneath a cresting wave, letting the water close over his head. It’s just this side of warm. It helps. Barely. When he breaks the surface and finds his feet, the water comes up to mid chest. He’s not surprised when a body presses close against his back and arms wrap possessively around his waist. He’s pulled backwards in that familiar way, off balance, his weight against Richie’s body and held firm. So they've entered Phase 2 of the dream, then. 

 

For once Seth doesn’t struggle, just relaxes back against Richie’s body and tilts his head obligingly to the left, baring his neck so Richie can see the absence of the thing he’s looking for—the mark from the bite Richie gave him, the one that’s always miraculously healed, leaving no scar. 

 

“Go ahead,” Seth prods, going off script by skipping ahead. He’s tired, and he doesn’t have it in him to fight. He’s fucking tired of fighting. Wouldn’t matter if he did. Richie always finds a way to set teeth to him anyway. 

 

There’s a pause. When Richie prods, there’s a new, indecipherable note in his tone, “What do you want me to do Seth? Say it.”

 

“It’s not there,” Seth recites Richie’s usual words back to him, deliberate. “It should be, but it’s not.”

 

“Sure it is,” Richie says, passing a teasing fingertip over the place where he bit him. “It’s right,” he noses against the spot, “Here.” That’s new. Seth shivers.

 

“No it’s gone,” Seth murmurs, closing his eyes, letting Richie and the water rock them, giving himself over to the stupor before Richie’s teeth even strike this time, anticipating what comes next. He welcomes the pain. Needs it a little, even. “It’s gone, but you can fix it.”

 

Richie’s silent, so Seth reaches a hand up, like he always does at this point, to place his palm against the smooth skin where the bite mark should be, and feels...a scar. 

 

Wait.

 

Seth comes back to himself with a jolt, the quicksilver flash of adrenaline flushing sudden and hot through his veins. “ _Wait_.” He tries to turn in Richie’s arms and (this is the kicker, this is how he _knows_ ) Richie lets him. 

 

“Wait,” he hisses at his brother, “You’re real?!”

 

“Nope, I’m hypothetical. The hell do you mean, ‘I’m real’? Of course I’m real, dumbass,” Richie drawls derisively, eyes narrowing in that familiar hostile/amused way of his, the one that says, _am I seriously related to this chucklehead?_

 

 _“_ Holy shit, you son of a BITCH!” Seth pulls his arm back to swing, but deep water and lingering disorientation slow his movements, and Richie is _fast_. Seth is spun again, back pulled up flush against Richie’s chest once more. Richie holds Seth tight, so both arms are pinned down to his sides, elbows angled slightly in so he can’t throw one back into Richie’s ribs. It’s a bitch fighting someone who knows all your tricks.

 

“Let me GO, you _son of a bitch_!” Seth growls, wriggling futilely.

 

“Careful brother, that’s our mom you’re talking about.” Richie waits Seth out until he stops thrashing. It doesn’t take as long as it would have, once upon a time. 

 

“Let. Me. Go. Richard.” Seth’s not playing this game. He’s _not_. 

 

“But you said I could fix it,” Richie purrs playfully, the bastard, giving a barely-there nip to the scar. His teeth are still blunt. Human. But Seth’s been here too often, dream or not, to trust they’ll stay that way. 

 

“Don’t you want me to fix it?” Richie whispers, close to his ear, managing to sound mocking and conspiratorial at the same time, and it’s confirmation somehow, that Richie _knows._ Knows about the dreams. Was there with him.

 

“Come on Seth, let me fix it.” Richie speaks softly, cajoling, nosing against the scar once more, as he drums his fingers lightly against the bare skin of Seth’s lower belly to punctuate the last two words: _fix it_. Seth’s body reacts traitorously, unspeakably. Seth closes his eyes, fervently trying to ignore what’s happening to his body below the belt.

 

But there it is, the thing his dreams have been edging toward for months. Richie and Seth have never been particularly law-abiding or normal, and Seth never much cared for society’s arbitrary rules, but this goes beyond all of that. He and Richie are toeing a razor-thin line right now, and on the other side of that line is a really dirty word for what they're about to do (crossword hint: six letters, begins with “i,” synonymous with “abomination”). Thing is, neither one of the Gecko brothers has ever been good at toeing a line, and one of them is bound to take the other with him when he falls.

 

Richie moves the hand resting on Seth’s bare stomach, using just the tips of his fingers to tease up the midline of Seth’s abs, up his sternum, up his neck over his Adam’s apple. He presses gently, _gently_ against the underside of Seth’s chin, the pressure little more than a suggestion to tilt his head back and to the side. He’s not forcing it; Seth could fight him if he wanted to. He doesn’t. Doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t want to. He’s so tired of fighting. 

 

He lets Richie press his head back against his shoulder. He looks up at the smooth, clean-shaven skin of Richie’s jaw, in such close proximity his vision starts to blur. He closes his eyes.

 

“Do it,” he says.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now this new version of the fic is unbeta'ed. I'm always in the market for great beta readers. If you're interested, drop me a note in the comments or PM me at laveracevia(dot)tumblr(dot)com. <3


	2. Whatever The Fuck We Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie had accepted that his feelings for Seth weren’t strictly fraternal a long time ago, right around the time he’d accepted that he was never going to be what other people thought of as normal. He finds he’s not really bothered by the stigma of it. After the things that Richie’s done....there aren’t many lines left these days that bother him to cross. This certainly isn’t one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be incest. You've been warned.

Richie has a plan. He’s prepared for all contingencies, up to and including the fact that Seth’s going to hate him. He deserves it of course (from Seth's limited perspective) and if Richie knows anything, it's how Seth thinks.

 

Seth'll take a swing at him when he sees him, wild and angry, less calculated than just plain desperate, and they'll tumble for a while, spitting insults and bitterness as they exorcise their mutual rage and frustration at each other from their systems. Then somewhere along the way, the anger will give way to exasperation, then amusement, and their grappling will become an embrace, their insults transmuted into begrudging forgiveness.

 

Seth will be gruff and glib, refusing to meet Richie's eyes in anything other than brief sideways glances, in that way he has when he doesn't want anyone to see the softness behind his eyes. But Richie will be witty and dry and irreverent, aloof in the way Seth expects, but also just vulnerable enough to slip through his brother's defenses and remind Seth of his love for him again.

 

He'll tell Seth the truth—most of it anyway, Seth won't trust him without it, and he's always been able to scent a lie on Richie—but not everything, not so much that Seth can see how Santanico's broken him, see what he's become.

 

Seth won't forget, won't absolve, not now and maybe not ever, but he'll forgive and he'll accept, and the Gecko brothers will ride again. And that's all Richie needs. Because if he has Seth, he can fight her, the hold she has on him, and it's the only thing that's kept him going these last months he's spent living in perdition.

 

He's had months to plan, and he's more than prepared for the vagaries of Seth's wounded pride, ready to finesse the situation to his advantage, no matter the antagonism that Seth throws his way.

 

By the time he can track Seth down, following the shimmering red thread of their blood bond, it’s stretched so thin over the miles between them as to be nearly nonexistent. Nearly, but not. He’s still able to reach out to Seth on the astral plane, bridging the disconcerting gap between them through dreams. He does it unintentionally that first time, after his first night with Santanico, reaching out in his sleep for comfort to the only source of security he’s ever had in his life. He doesn’t even know that he’s sending Seth a visitation, in a way akin to the waking nightmares Santanico had used to call him to her. Hadn’t known until he’d awoken the next day and felt simultaneously homesick and hopeful. A need in him, one he’d been heretofore unaware of, had been sated, marginally, and now he felt…incrementally freer, somehow. And he’d realized then that the tie between them ran both ways. He could send himself to Seth, but he could also _take_. Taking from his brother the strength he needed—the symbolic act of bloodletting on the metaphysical plain could lend Richie the will to resist that he needed in real life. 

 

It helped, even on his weaker nights, when his subconscious wasn’t strong enough to keep his own nightmares out. Those were the times when Santanico appeared, an interloper in their shared dreams. Not the real Santanico of course, but Richie’s own anxiety given dream-substance. 

 

Over time, he’d built a well of much-needed fortitude from the blood bond with Seth, and later, as his ability grew, was able to track his brother’s whereabouts as well. 

 

It was only when he’d caught up to him though that he’d realized (surprise, surprise) Seth had company. None other than the preacher’s doe-eyed daughter. 

 

He stays close, sticking always to the shadows and maintaining his distance as Seth and Kate traverse Mexico, zigging back and forth in search of the man Madrid, finding clues and dead ends and still more clues. He has no illusions that Seth and Kate will ever track the elusive character down, but word travels, and Richie begins to think that word of Mexico’s least discreet detectives will spread, and accomplish something that Richie himself cannot.

 

So he follows, like a dark guardian angel, keeping the _culebras_ off their scent and his too, most of the time, and killing the ones that do pick up the trail. He does a pretty stellar job of it too, for one guy on his own, except for that one time in Monterrey. He’d gotten sloppy, complacent after being free for so long, and he hadn’t bothered to cover his tracks. Seth and Kate are attacked by two _culebras_ looking for Richie, and he’s almost forced to reveal himself to save them. But Seth’s a tough motherfucker and since he’s been training Kate like some sort of...Junior Gecko Scout, she is, at least, less vulnerable than she was. The two of them make it out in one piece and Richie is more careful after that.

 

He watches the relationship unfold between Seth and Kate, wholly unsurprised, irked at the complication Kate poses, but amused all the same. Even the most myopic moron could have predicted it. The road has a way of forging a bond between people, and these two star-crossed idiots are no exception. It starts out as admiration in Kate’s eyes, and then that admiration begins a slow, inexorable slide into infatuation. How could it not? Tale as old as time: Good Girl (young, naive, stars in her eyes) falls for Bad Boy (broken and bold and just begging to be saved by the Love Of A Good Woman). 

 

And Seth? There is no reality in which he doesn’t fall for the girl who looks at him that way. 

 

Richie’s not jealous. Kate’s a sweet kid, but she’s no replacement for blood. An isolated childhood with their abusive bastard of a father, followed by a precarious adolescence with Uncle Eddie, raising themselves whenever he was doing another one of his frequent stints in the pen—it didn't exactly make for a healthy level of attachment. So when it came to boundaries, there was really no such thing between Richie and Seth. Richie had lost count how many times he’d glimpsed Seth fucking Vanessa (or one of her interchangeable predecessors). 

 

Fuck Maslow and his Hierarchy of Needs. The only thing Richie and Seth needed to survive was each other…even if the imbalanced nature of their partnership had caused Richie to (briefly) lose sight of that. But Richie was going to fix that. He was going to fix everything.

 

So no, at the end of the day, he doesn’t see sweet, innocent Kate Fuller as a threat. 

 

But then he's not prepared to find Seth with his hand between sweet, innocent Kate Fuller's legs either. He's not, by any stretch of the imagination, ready to watch her mewl and whine and writhe on his brother's fingers while Seth cradles her from behind, turned so she can't see the aching hunger on his face warring with a conflagration of noble self-hatred. Barf.

 

He's even less prepared for the feelings the sight inspires in him—intense dismay and to his bemusement, a surprisingly aggressive sense of possessiveness that he hadn’t known existed. Well, he’d _known_ , but not like _that._

 

Richie had accepted that his feelings for Seth weren’t _strictly_ fraternal a long time ago, right around the time he’d accepted that he was never going to be what other people thought of as _normal_. He finds he’s not really bothered by the stigma of it these days. After all the things Richie’s done....there aren’t many lines left that bother him to cross anymore. This certainly isn’t one of them. 

 

It _is_ a line Richie had idly considered crossing a time or two in the past, before Seth went to prison. Before the visions and the Twister and the nightmare that his life became thereafter. But Richie had always been good at compartmentalizing, and this incipient craving had always been nothing more than a distraction. He didn’t need it. Couldn’t have it anyway. Because there were also Seth’s feelings to take into account. 

 

His brother liked being an outlaw. Seth didn't crave the trappings of normal either—he liked the feel of bloodied knuckles and dirt under his tires too much to want normal. But Seth couldn’t stomach the thought of being a villain. It went against his *code*. 

 

(The memory of that hotel room is foggy, like a half-remembered dream, like it happened to someone else, but he can still smell the blood, still feel the weight of Seth’s hand on the back of his neck, can hear his words clearly: _This is_ not _who we are! Say it!_ )

 

That damned ironclad code is the reason Seth’s now attempting to drown himself under the paltry spray of a beach shower, mentally castigating himself for ruining Kate’s virtue, no doubt. For tainting her somehow by touching her with his dirty hands. Richie rolls his eyes, out of patience. 

 

It turns his stomach, this bullshit pity party. Seth thinks he feels shame? He can’t even begin to comprehend what real shame feels like. 

 

This is not the Seth he knows, full of piss and vinegar, cocky as hell and blindingly charismatic. This is not the Seth he _needs_. This weak, capitulating, self-recriminating bastard is not his brother, and the sight of it fills Richie with rage. It’s stupid and it’s beneath him and it is _not what Geckos fucking do_ and in that moment, Richie makes a decision. He steps from the shadows purposefully. Conspicuously.

 

A sigh. “...Hello Richard.” 

 

Richie smiles.

 

So. Yeah. He knows Seth’s boundaries. But Richie’s never been a fan of restrictions, self-imposed or otherwise. And since he became _culebra_ , he doesn’t have what you would call an affinity for moderation these days. He knows what he can’t have with Seth. But it doesn’t mean he can't tease. Distract him, make him mad enough to pull his head out of his own ass.

 

This thing between them had started in the dreams. He hadn’t even done it intentionally. Not at first. It had just been so _easy_ (and so fun) to rile Seth up until he fought and hissed like an angry cat. It felt like old times, going after each other to see who could push the other’s buttons first. In the Gecko world, it practically passed for therapy. It was even more fun to push his boundaries, nudging at his notions of propriety. It made Seth’s submission at the end of every dream all the more sweet.

 

He’s surprised then, that Seth doesn’t fight when Richie pulls him into his arms. Richie follows his off-kilter brother down to the water’s edge, half-concerned he’s really going to try to drown himself. But when Richie grabs Seth when he comes up for air, Seth just...gives in. Sinks back, body going open and pliant in Richie’s arms as the warm water laps at them, rocking them together, the sensation almost amniotic.

 

It becomes obvious then: Seth thinks he’s dreaming. He thinks Richie’s about to bite him, and for whatever reason, Seth decides not to fight this time. And he goes into it so easy. So _sweet_. The center of Richie’s spine goes liquid and hot at the sight. 

 

Then there’s the other thing—the subtle scent rolling off Seth’s skin, strongest at his neck and throat. 

 

See, Richie’s got a heightened sense of smell these days. It’s the serpent in him. When he inhales, he experiences a heady synesthesia of _scent-taste-scent_. And the particular blend coming from his brother right now is something new: velvety and heated and needy on his tongue and in his nose. A kind of confused arousal. Hypnotic. Enticing. Delicious.

 

It’s not the same scent he’d gotten from Seth earlier in the night with Kate: that hungry, aching restraint. This is different. And it’s in response to _Richie._ The realization lights a fire low in his belly. For the first time in years, he’s thinking about doing more than teasing. He’s thinking, _what if....?_

 

So he teases some more, testing the waters, and when Seth figures it out, twigs on to his mistake, Richie just keeps right on pushing. 

 

It takes coaxing, but eventually Seth gives in. “Do it.”

 

_Yes._ Richie’s fangs drop involuntarily. He blinks and his pupils become vertical slits, his view of the world transmuting to shades of infrared. A serpent’s vision. He can see the vermillion pulse of blood at Seth’s neck, glowing just underneath the skin. And more, pulsing beneath the fly of Seth’s jeans, fainter for the interference of the fabric, but no less tempting. Richie _wants._ He lowers his head, scents the humid skin at Seth’s neck, savoring the moment as he slides his hand down to curl sinuous fingers between Seth’s legs.

 

“No!” Seth jerks out, his head shooting up, nearly braining Richie in the nose. Richie lets his face revert to its human aspect as Seth turns in his arms. His dark eyes are soft with pleading and a kind of pained desperation. It’s a twin of the look he’d given Richie at the Titty Twister, right before he’d walked away for good. “Just...just the blood Richie. We can’t—we’re not...not the other part. Please. We can’t do that,” he says. 

 

It hurts, being rejected by the only person he needs (the only person he has in the world), that hurt coiling into angry resentment that sits in his gut like broken shards of glass, sharp-edged and perilous. The urge to lash out rises and he feels his stare go cruel.

 

“Aw, come on Seth,” he mocks, “You’re already an ephebophile. What’s a little incest between brothers after that? I mean, the pervert train has already left the station.”

 

He knows it’s too far, and counterproductive, but he can’t stop. He wants to pull Seth close, shake some fucking sense into him, _fuck_ some fucking sense into him, make him understand what Richie himself has already figured out—that the two of them, _together_ , are all that matters. Fuck everyone else. But he feels Seth fighting away from him again, so he forces his grip to loosen, lets Seth move out of his arms to put a buffer of angry, precarious space between their bodies. Seth’s giving him that stone-faced killer look of his: mouth tight, eyes narrowed. It’s a look meant to intimidate anyone else, but Richie knows what it really means—that Seth is cracking apart on the inside. 

 

“I don’t know what ‘ _ephebophile_ ’ means,”  Seth grits out, and even his air quotes are angry at this point, “But if you’re talking about Kate, you can leave her the fuck out of this.”

 

“It _means_ you’re a big fan of jailbait pussy, turns out,” Richie tosses back. He’s expecting Seth to charge him. He anticipates the punch when it comes too ( _finally_ ) which is why he doesn't anticipate the hard, open-handed bitch slap thrown his way instead, until it cracks him HARD across the jaw. There’s enough force behind it to rock his head to the side, and there’s blood in his mouth when he straightens up. He spits red into the surf, the cuts inside his mouth already starting to heal. 

 

“Did you just _bitch slap_ me?” he asks, disbelieving. “What the fuck, you asshole– ”

 

Seth grabs the back of his neck, his grip rough, pulls him so they’re nearly nose-to-nose. Puts a finger in his face. 

 

He hisses, “Listen to me...you...you fucking...” But he doesn’t finish his sentence, eyes searching Richie’s for something. He must not find it. His eyes close. His shoulders sag and his head drops. His forehead presses against Richie’s. There’s gravel in his throat when he speaks again. “You left, you piece of shit. You. Fucking. Left. Why, Richie?” 

 

And just like that, Richie’s anger is gone. He lifts a hand to cup the back of Seth’s neck, a gentler mirror of Seth’s own posture. Gentles his voice to match his grip. “I’m here now.” He waits cautiously for the fight in Seth to rise to the surface again, and when it doesn’t, he skims his hand down from Seth’s neck to his lower back. “I’m here now.” Hugs him tightly against his body. “I swear, I’m here,” he promises.

 

Just because it’s calculated, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean it.

 

“Okay,” Seth husks.

 

“Okay?” Richie returns, asking a dozen different things with one word.

 

“Okay,” Seth says again, stronger this time. Surer. “Okay, because if I do this Richard? If I damn us both? If I let you…then that’s it. You and me, together until the fucking wheels fall off. Fat and rich and dying in the arms of a beautiful– ”

 

Richie cuts him off, smiling, “No one else’s arms. Mine,” and presses his mouth against Seth’s.

 

It’s gentle kiss, for two such violent men. Not soft exactly, but cautious. Exploratory. He presses his mouth against Seth’s over and over, lingering. Coaxing. Needing to be nothing else but exactly what they are right now. He’s won. Richie lets himself enjoy it, taking his time. He parts his lips, laving his tongue against the seam of Seth’s mouth, not yet pushing inside, just teasing. Savoring the sound Seth makes in response: a quiet, almost subvocal groan of pleasure. A sound of surrender. His lips part, and Richie presses his tongue inside. He pulls Seth so their bodies are flush, splays his hands possessively against Seth’s back. 

 

Seth’s hands wrap around Richie’s biceps in response, his grip tight, and the kiss goes wild, their tongues sliding hot and hungry against each other. 

 

Maybe Richie should be more restrained, lest Seth balks, but…they’re both moaning now, husky and desperate, and Richie can barely tell which sounds are coming from him and which are coming from his brother, and _fuck_ , Richie fucking loves this. He breaks the kiss, takes a second to savor Seth’s dark-lashed, pleasure-drunk blink of surprise, and then noses up underneath Seth’s chin to nuzzle at his bare neck, at the scar there. 

 

“Richie,” Seth rasps, voice colored with a new, turned-on variation of his particular brand of big-brotherly irritation. 

 

Richie dips his head to hear, but no more words are forthcoming. He presses one wicked, biting kiss against Seth’s jaw before teasing low into his ear, “Use your words Seth.” 

 

Seth’s gaze meets his for a moment, and there’s hazy pleasure there, yeah, but something else too, something unreadable. Seth sways on his feet and tips forward, nose pressing against Richie’s cheek.  Richie can feel him through their pants, hard as iron. Seth makes a sound between a growl and a pant against the side of Richie’s mouth. “Fuck you. I’m burning up from the inside out. _Do_ something. Fish or fucking cut bait Richard.”

 

Richie curls his hand around the bulge in Seth’s jeans, cupping the hardness there. He grins with wicked triumph when he hears Seth’s gasp, feels his whole body shudder. Seth hitches his hips against him, trying to find friction and Richie gives it back with his own hard cock and— _holy shit_. It’s a revelation.

 

He’d lost the option of choice, along with his dignity. Had it taken from him, really. After months under Santanico’s thrall, his body had begun to respond to her commands like they were his own. By the end, he’d been unable to even get hard without her permission. Without her command. _Pavlov’s dick_ , an ugly voice in his head sneers. He’d thought (feared? known?) that she’d made him her _thing_ —conditioned to need her tacit permission, for even his body’s most primal of functions. But no. He’s won. Fuck her, he’s _free_ , and on the heels of the exultation he feels from that knowledge comes urgency and biting hunger. The hunger to _bite._

 

He rubs his open mouth against Seth’s, so fucking turned on. “Screw ‘em on tight, brother-mine. I’m about to show you how I _fish_.”

 

He bears Seth down onto that sandy beach and lets his fangs slip out again. Licks the salt from Seth’s neck and then presses his teeth into Seth’s skin, slow. Lets his thigh slip between Seth’s legs so he can rut against it. Seth cries out and bucks his hips as the hot sweetness of his blood fills Richie’s mouth. 

 

After a time, Richie leans back, studies his handiwork. He’s reopened the old scar, renewed it. Claimed it. 

 

“That’s twice you’ve let me put my teeth in your throat brother,” he whispers, “Now you’re mine.” 

 

He leans in again to sip hungrily at the blood that slicks down Seth’s neck and over his shoulder. Seth keeps making the most obscene, cock-baiting noises. It’s a power Richie has never known before, to elicit such sounds from another person. 

 

Which means that Seth, of course, feels compelled to ruin the moment. “Tell me something Richard,” he gasps, voice shuddery with endorphins, “W-when you chose good old Snake Eyes over your own flesh and blood, did you ever th-think it would end up here? The two of us on a beach, starring—Jesus _Christ_ , would you stop eating me for a second?—starring in our own gay, be-fanged, incestuous version of _From Here To Eternity_? Did you? Did you plan this all along?” 

 

Richie rolls his eyes. Seth’s just rambling at this point, wielding smartassery like armor. Anything to keep from being vulnerable. It’s all about Seth’s pathological need to retain control, and Richie knows he’ll treat any command to shut up as an invitation to do exactly the opposite. Orders don’t work on his brother; action does.

 

So he slips his hand inside the front of Seth’s jeans. Or tries to, his fingers barely brushing the place where cock meets body, but the denim has gone abrasive and stiff from the combination of sand and rapidly drying salt water, and really, no matter how hot beach sex looks in the movies, the actual experience leaves something to be desired. Richie’s determined not to give Seth’s tricky brain reason to look back on this experience with anything other than pleasure. 

 

And really, it’s for the good of all concerned that Seth doesn’t associate their first time together with the memory of a sand-burned cock. He’d never let Richie hear the end of it.

 

He pulls his hand out of Seth’s pants and stands. “ _Up_ ,” he orders. Seth (fucking finally, for once in his life) obeys. He comes to his feet and follows Richie, stumbling like a drunk man, dumb with arousal. Richie slings Seth’s arm over his shoulder, guiding his unsteady steps.

 

Seth’s been sleeping alone, Richie learns, in a room down the hall from the preacher’s daughter (who happens to be sleeping with her door closed tonight, he notes). He smiles. _Mine_. 

 

Seth stands motionless in the middle of the room, half-naked and covered from chin to hip in a slurry of blood and beach sand. Richie should take him into the shower, clean them both off. But the feral part of him wants to see those bedsheets ruined with blood. Wants it _now_ , before the Greek chorus that resides somewhere deep in Seth’s head can take up it’s usual refrain of _woe-betide-the-life-of-Gecko_ once more _._

 

He strips his own shirt off over his head with preternatural speed, rips his belt out of his pants so fast it _zings_ (watches Seth’s eyes follow the movement as he takes a stuttering breath and thinks, _Hmm_ , then shelves it for another time), and then shucks his pants and underwear down together. He was the modest one, once, but recent experience has stolen any modesty he once had, and now he stands bare and proud before his brother. 

 

Seth hasn’t moved. He watches Richie as he strips, but looks away when he drops his pants. Seth rubs a hand through his hair self-consciously, shoulders tense, posture stiff and Richie slides right into his space, enjoying the way Seth’s eyes dance around the room to avoid his nudity. It’s adorable, but it won’t do.

 

Richie tucks two fingers down the front of Seth’s jeans, just behind the band of his boxers. He lets his knuckles graze low on Seth’s belly, playing against the trail of hair that guides downwards from his navel, and revels in how the muscles there flutter against the backs of his fingers. Seth’s eyes close and his breath stutters to a stop. He holds it. Holding himself in check. But Richie’s had his fill of that.

 

“Your turn,” he purrs, and pops the button open on Seth’s jeans, unzips them with a flourish, and Seth’s inhales a ragged breath. _There_. There it is. “Still with me brother?” he asks. Seth doesn’t reply, but he nods. His hands shake when he puts them over Richie’s, and Richie is the one who does most of the work, but together they finish stripping his clothes. 

 

He crowds Seth backwards onto the bed, positioning him so they both lay on their sides, facing each other. He holds him close, Seth’s neck cradled possessively in the crook of Richie’s elbow. No one gets to face away from the other person this time. Richie will allow no protective buffer between them. He is not Kate. He needs to _see_ , and be seen. 

 

He presses his palm flat to Seth’s belly, right over his solar plexus, drags it down, slow and heavy, fingers carding through his pubic hair, then wraps them around Seth’s cock. Weighs it in his hand, watches Seth face contort with sensation. Stripes his hand up and down one rough time, thumbs the dampness at the slit. Seth moans like he’s in pain, squeezes his eyes shut, and comes hot into Richie’s hand. 

 

Richie lets go, staring at his palm full of jizz in disbelief. “Seriously?” he exclaims, “Did you have to?”

 

Seth rolls onto his back, and throws an arm over his eyes. “Shut up Richard,” he groans, his body shuddering its way through the aftershocks, cock jerking wetly.

 

Richie takes it all in—the blood painting Seth’s neck and chest, the cum slicking his belly, the way he hides his face. He moves closer, pulling Seth’s arm away from his eyes, cupping his chin when Seth tries to turn his face away. He studies Seth’s face, his eyes darker than usual, lashes wet, the pupils blown with arousal. Power and satisfaction surge in his chest. 

 

“Christ, Richie,” Seth whispers. “What are we doing?”

 

“Whatever the fuck we want,” Richie replies, and surges forward to claim what belongs to him.


	3. Please, Tell Me How

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opens his eyes. To see the barrel of a gun in his face. A Walther P-22. He knows that gun. Had been the one to gift it to its owner. And now said owner happens to be standing over him, aiming it at his head. Well. Not his head exactly. At a point just behind his head. Richie’s head. Shit.
> 
> “Kate...” he draws out her name, trying to turn her attention from Richie to himself. Trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. He holds both hands up in the eternal sign for cease and desist. “I can explain.”

Seth has never been an early riser. But he has always been a fast waker, going trigger-quick from asleep to alert. In his experience, it’s always been handy to know where the hell he was, and why, the minute his eyes popped open. It’s always been his way, even before prison made it a necessity.  

 

This morning is different. This morning he wakes slow and easy, floating in his own body, lost somewhere between dreaming and aware. Warm. Surrounded by warmth, behind him and around him, slung over his hip and wrapped around his chest. 

 

The sense memories come back first, rising to the top of the murky space where his brain used to be. 

 

 _He’s overwhelmed. Crushed under the weight of sensation. And guilt, can’t forget the guilt. Haunted by his dreams, and not a damn thing left to guard himself with. It was too much—anger and anticipation and elation and apprehension and pleasure and pain and blood and cum, and at the center of it all,_ Richie _._ _God, his fucking own brother._

 

 _The little bastard._ _Like the world’s most self-satisfied spider, lounging at the center of the sticky web of sensation that held Seth tight. Richie, waltzing back into his life like it was nothing, like it had been his plan all along to abandon him for months and then turn up with something more than brotherly love on his mind. Richie, pushing and pulling and promising and provoking, for hours. Or what felt like hours. Turning tumblers in his head until he cracked him wide open. Until it felt like he could persuade him of anything. Until he persuaded him of everything. Richie, bearing him down to the sand and bleeding him. Battering him with words and fingers and lips and teeth and tongue, until all he could do was hang on. Ride it out. Feel everything Richie wanted him to feel._

 

 _And now in bed together, Richie’s barely even wrapped a hand around him, and he’s already coming. Hard. And his head is fucking spinning, he can barely string two thoughts together, and he needs… he needs to pull his shit together. Somehow. He throws his arm over his eyes, tries to breathe. Tries to slow his racing heart. Tries to find some vestige of control over himself. But Richie has never met a boundary of Seth’s that he can’t merrily frolic right the fuck over, so why should this one be any different? Fingers—long, insistent, and talented (_ Christ _Seth, don’t think that)—wrap around his arm and pull it from his face._

 

_Even with his eyes closed, Seth can feel Richie’s gaze on him. His defenses have been stripped away, one by one, his body laid bare and open for inspection. Examined. Seen. He hates it (and loves it, on some level, and hates himself more because of it)._

 

_“Open your eyes Seth.”_

 

_He can’t. He turns his head away. Tries to anyway. But fucking Flowers in the Attic over here won’t let him. Like a dog with a bone, his brother. And Seth doesn’t have anything left in the tank to resist him._

 

_Is this real? Is he really having sex with his own fucking brother?“Christ Richie, what are we doing?”_

 

_The satisfaction practically drips from Richie’s voice.“Whatever the fuck we want.”_

 

_Whatever the fuck Richie wants is more like (and if there’s a part of him that wants it too, it’s only because Richie broke him tonight, he tells himself). (In the back of his mind he wonders if they broke each other, a long time ago)._

 

_Richie nudges him over onto his stomach, and Seth wonders distantly if he’s going to end the night with a dick up his ass. “Is this the part where you fuck me?” he hears himself asking. He’s not even sure he cares._

 

 _Richie_ hmmm’s _, a dark and delighted sound. Bites bluntly at the back of his neck. Inhales like he’s scenting him. Drawls, “So pedantic Seth, Jesus. What next? Expecting me to tell you to scream like a pi–” He stops, maybe realizing what he’s about to imply. Or maybe just deciding not to make the easy joke. Richie always did hate low-hanging fruit._

 

_Whatever it is, his words hang between them. No one moves. They barely breathe.  There’s something shapeless and un-formed in the air, not yet sure of its own weight._

 

_The tension tightens in Seth’s throat…and then the absurdity of this whole situation hits him, and the tension cracks. A snort bubbles its way out of him. Another. His shoulders shake. A wild whoop slips out, and suddenly they’re both cracking up, Seth’s belly aching, Richie giggling against the back of Seth’s neck, both of them giddy and a little hysterical. They’ve tumbled off the edge of sanity together, and it’s a relief, somehow._

 

_After the laughter runs its course they lay there together, pressed belly to back in a hushed, fragile cease-fire. Richie puts his hand on top of Seth’s, tangles their fingers together, squeezes. He swallows. “Missed– ” But he stops. Clears his throat. Never finishes what he was going to say._

 

_He extricates the hand holding Seth’s and trails it teasingly down his arm, long fingers tracing the flames inked into the skin there._

 

“ _This?” he murmurs, “This is me. You tattooed me into your skin. Blood and ink. You and me. It was always going to be us. You knew it then. You know it now. Say it.” Seth doesn’t know what to say._

 

 _So Richie moves those long fingers down a little lower, and wraps them underneaths Seth’s knee, lifting it higher on the bed so he’s spread open underneath him. Seth hears him spit, and the wet_ shlick-shlick-shlick _sounds of hand on cock make his actions obvious, though Seth can’t see him. Richie spits again and this time slides his wet hand between…between Seth’s cheeks. Seth goes hot all over. He waits, eyes clenched, trying not to shake. He feels the pressure of Richie’s hard cock, hot and heavy, but. Richie doesn’t press in. He just slots himself between and under. Wiggles a little, adjusts himself so he’s seated flush between Seth’s legs, right up behind his balls, and Seth’s just…he doesn’t know. No words. They’re pressed together down the full length naked of their bodies, no space, and somehow it feels more right than wrong._

 

 _“Say. It,” Richie grunts. He pulls Seth back against him and hitches his hips at the same time, so the head of his cock nudges dryly at the opening of his body, then slips forwards to press against the back of Seth’s sac in hot, simulated fuck, and Seth groans helplessly, dropping his face into the pillow. The sound seems to encourage Richie. He presses the full weight of his body onto Seth, hands braced on either side of his shoulder, and ruts_ hard _up against him, so all Seth can do is hold on._

 

_He’s never been like this. Never been the vulnerable one, lying here with his legs open and another body pressing between them. He never thought it would feel so. Like this._

 

 _Richie reaches beneath Seth’s belly and takes his cock in hand, and it’s like he fucking_ owns _him, Jesus Christ. He humps desperately into Richie’s hand, into the bed beneath him, and clenches his teeth to stop the whimper that wants to escape, wanting it all and sick at himself for it._

 

_Fangs break the skin of his neck, again, and Seth’s hips undulate involuntarily, his balls drawing up, pleasure flowing in a never-ending feedback loop from bite to cock, cock to bite._

 

_“Where are you Seth?” Richie drags blood-wet kisses over the back of Seth’s shoulders._

 

_“…I…what?” Seth never could keep up with Richie, the way his big brain could run in twelve different directions at once._

 

 _“Where are you? Say it._ Say _it.” Digs his fingers into the inked skin of Seth's shoulder._

 

_And suddenly Seth knows the words, knows them like they’re tattooed into his skin. They are, in a way._

 

_“I’m with you, Richie,” he grunts, words fighting their way out around the godawful pleasure building in him._

 

_“Say it again,” Richie orders, bucking hard against him, striping his hand faster up and down Seth’s cock, thumb pressing against the slit, punctuating each word with a thrust. “Fucking. Say. It. Again.”_

 

 _“With you Richie. I’m with you. Always. You and me, always,” he says, voice breaking as his body begins to do the same._  

 

_Richie makes a wounded animal noise that hits Seth somewhere below his sternum, and comes in hot, sticky strands between Seth’s legs, behind his balls. And Seth can’t help but answer him in kind, as blurts of cum spill out of him, spreading between his trembling stomach and the sheets beneath, mingling with the mess Richie’s already made, wet becoming wetter._

 

_He drifts, cum-dumb, tangled together with Richie. His mind slips away, and he lets it, letting the sensations of his body steer this doomed fucking ship. Lets the heartbeat that’s pressed against his back lull him down into sleep. Tomorrow he’ll deal with the fact that he’s just fucked his brother. Tonight, he’s just done._

 

He doesn’t want to open his eyes and face the day. Face what he’s done. But it’s too late. With wakefulness, the hazy knowledge of last night’s activities resolves itself into full technicolor splendor. 

 

He and Richie. He and Kate. Oh God. Kate.

 

What a banner night. He’d fucked around with a teenager, and gone to bed with his brother. It was a new low for depravity, even for a Gecko.

 

And now, here he is, waking up in his brother’s arms. _Christ Seth._

 

Thing is, he really doesn’t feel any shame for what he and Richie have done. Just a tired, numbed acceptance. They were damned already, so let them be damned all the way.

 

But what he’d done with Kate? That’s another story. He wishes he’d never touched her. And he wishes even more that wasn’t a lie. Fuck.

 

He needs to face the day and what he’s done. Check on Kate. Make whatever amends there are to be made. See if he can salvage something from this clusterfuck.

 

He opens his eyes. To the barrel of a gun pointed at his face. A Walther P-22. He knows that gun. Had been the one to gift it to its owner. Now said owner happens to be standing over him, aiming it at his head. Well. Not _his_ head exactly. At a point just behind his head. Richie’s head. Shit.

 

“Kate...” he draws out her name, trying to turn her attention from Richie to himself. Keeps his voice low and calm. He holds both hands up in the eternal sign for _don’t shoot._ “I can explain.”

 

She turns the gun on him. Scans briefly down his body and back up to his eyes. Cocks the gun. “Can you? Please, tell me how,” she says, with an edge of hysteria. He glances down too, following the path her gaze took. And winces.

 

There’s no mistaking what they’ve done. No denying it. The sheets, stained with blood and other fluids, are rucked low, baring everything down to his hips (and Richie’s), barely preserving anyone’s modesty.

 

Richie, magnificent bastard that he is, chooses this moment to press a kiss to the curve of Seth’s shoulder from behind. Kate makes a noise of horror. It’s not a gasp, not quite, but a choked little inhale that goes high at the top. A breathless, pitiful sort of sound. It’s the worst thing Seth’s ever heard.

 

Richie uses her moment of disorientation, viper-quick, to slam a flat hand hard against the back of her wrist, catching the gun when it drops out of her loosened grip. Then he turns it on her, speculative. 

 

Protective rage rises in Seth’s chest. He slaps the back of Richie’s head. “What the _fuck_ are you doing Richard?” he hisses. “Jesus Christ! Get that out of her face. _Now._ What is wrong with you?”

 

Richie doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look his way as he lowers the gun, never turning that thousand-yard stare away from Kate. It chills Seth to see this version of his brother—this cold, shark-eyed killer.  

 

But Kate doesn’t look scared. She lifts her chin and bares her teeth at Richie, who laughs. “Though she be but little, she is _fierce_ ,” he intones, popping the clip on her gun. He inspects the results and turns to Seth, appalled. “A fucking .22? What kind of fucking pea shooter Seth? Seriously? Should have just given her a slingshot.”

 

“Shut up Richie,” he growls, but it’s too late, the damage has been done. He watches Kate’s bravado crack, sees her take it as the insult Richie meant.

 

Never one to shy away from rubbing salt in the wound, Richie climbs out of bed. Naked. He drops the gun and its ejected clip on Seth’s stomach as he goes, heading towards the bathroom. His message is clear: claim staked. Done and done. Kate's face breaks. In this moment Seth hates him. Again.

 

“What the FUCK is wrong with you two?!” she screams (sobs), and flees the room on bare feet. He hears the door to the villa slam seconds later.

 

Richie lounges leisurely at the threshold of the bathroom, poised to say something flippant. “Do NOT,” Seth warns, re-slotting the clip into the gun. “Do. Not.” He pulls his pants back on and staggers to the door. His head swims from blood loss, and the the room shifts a little, but he can’t stop; can’t let Kate get too far. There’s no way to fix this, but he has to try. He can’t just let her go.

 

He finds her sitting in the sand in the early morning sun, knees curled up to her chest, face buried in her arms. The beach is deserted this time of day but for the two of them.

 

She’s crying, but not hysterically, like Seth expects. She’s just....wrung out. Empty. Tears run down her weary face in a steady stream, the only animated thing about her. When he sits down beside her (taking care that he’s not too close), she won’t look at him. Won’t lift her eyes away from where she stares dully, out across the water to the horizon. Seth doesn’t say anything. He can’t imagine the words to begin. 

 

That’s a lie. He can. _Sorry I ruined your life. Again._

 

But he can't make himself say it, so he waits. 

 

When she speaks, her usually sweet voice is an exhausted rasp. “Why didn’t you let us go, once we made it to the Twister?”

 

Seth’s ready to give one very uncomfortable, very Gecko-specific birds and the bees speech ( _You see, when two fucked up brothers love each other very much..._ ) but her words throw him off. 

 

“Huh?” he replies eloquently. 

 

“You had everything you wanted at that point.” She turns accusing, hollow eyes on him. “You made it. You were across the border. You had the RV. You had the bonds. You were home free. _Why_ didn’t you let us _go_?”

 

What’s he supposed to say? _Because I’m a pussy._ _I was in over my head and I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to face what Richie had become all by myself. I didn’t have it in me. Maybe I still don’t._

 

He should say it. He doesn’t.

 

What he says instead is, “The deal wasn’t done. For all I knew, you would have run straight to the cops. Brought a hundred _Federales_ down on my head before I could so much as scratch my balls.” 

 

“Bullshit,” Kate spits.

 

“Oh we’re using profanity now?” 

 

She spares him a cold glance. “You know what I think? I think you were _scared_. No, _terrified_. You wouldn’t let us go because as long as you had us there, we were a distraction. Without us, you’d have to worry about what came next. You’d have to make the hard decisions. You’d have to face the fact that your brother is a monster. And you couldn’t. Because you were too weak.”

 

And there it is. This brilliant, strong girl (woman? girl?) has had his number all along.

 

He has nothing to counter with. All he can do is shake his head. But it’s not a denial. 

 

He tries to offer, “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. I’ll–”

 

“ _Where_. The Hell. Am I supposed to _go_? Huh?! TELL ME, Seth!” she screams.

 

She’s up on her knees now, slamming both hands _hard_ against his chest, knocking him backwards onto his elbows when he doesn’t try to stop her.

 

“Where am I supposed to go? My family is gone. I have no one. All I’ve got is...” 

 

( _me_ , Seth’s brain tries to fill in, unhelpfully) 

 

“...this,” she finishes, deflating, the righteous anger leaving as quickly as it came. She sits back on her heels. “You want to fix this? Want to make it better? You help me find Johnny Madrid, so we can get some answers. Then help me find Scott. You’ve got your brother back. Help me get mine.”

 

“I will. I swear,” he promises.

 

“Good. Now leave me the fuck alone.” She turns back to the sea, tucking her knees tightly against her chest again and turning her head away from him. 

 

For the first time in his sorry existence, Seth doesn’t actually want to leave. He wants to stay, to try to make her understand—that Richie wasn’t always like this, not until Psycho Snake Bitch got into his head. Wants to explain to her that he needs to fix him. Needs to try. He wants to tell her that they can make this work, somehow. Wants to cup that stubborn, pointed chin of hers in his hands and swear he will make it up to her. Make it right. No matter what he has to do. No matter how long it takes. 

 

But he doesn’t.

 

He swore (was it only last night?) that no matter what evil he did, what lines he crossed, he wouldn’t take Kate down with him.

 

So he goes, leaving her gun lying there beside her. He walks away, and he doesn’t linger. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t see her when she picks the gun up and puts it in her lap, staring at it for a long time. Doesn’t see her when she puts her face in her hands and sobs.

 

Maybe he should have. Lingered. Stayed. Maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe it could have stopped what came after. 

 

Nah. Probably not. Seth’s always known he was going to Hell. He just didn’t know that Hell would come early to claim it’s due.  

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me over on tumblr, I've LaVeraceVia there too. No fic there yet, but I'm working on bringing it over soon.
> 
> As always, feedback is love. (Did I mention I live for feedback?)


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